


a thousand and one other ways (that I love you)

by canistakahari



Series: Absurdist Viral Posts [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Comedy, Food as a Metaphor for Love, M/M, Memes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:47:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23351917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canistakahari/pseuds/canistakahari
Summary: Bucky spends a lot of time online these days. Steve is often just along for the ride.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Absurdist Viral Posts [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1679593
Comments: 36
Kudos: 379





	a thousand and one other ways (that I love you)

**Author's Note:**

> man, I don't know. this is the third of these little ficlets that's based on a viral post or meme and is loosely set in a universe where steve is retired and bucky is weird. 
> 
> yesterday I read this [twitter post about triscuits](https://twitter.com/sageboggs/status/1242968530250870786) and today here we are. the images linked within were sourced from the twitter thread.

Bucky spends a lot of time online these days. 

He takes to the internet in a way Steve just doesn’t have the patience for, spending hours scrolling through social media and saving memes to his phone that he later uses in texts to Steve.

For three weeks, Bucky communicates solely in emojis, having made some kind of unspoken bet with himself that forbids him from using the written word. He’s well-versed in pop culture, refuses to share any of his no doubt numerous handles with Steve, and occasionally, when Steve tries to play along and sends Bucky an animated gif while he’s bent over his phone texting furiously to who even knows, Bucky raises his head and fixes Steve with the kind of exasperated, dead-eyed stare that would wither any unenhanced human to dust. 

“It’s Spongebob,” says Steve defensively, because that, at least, he has peripheral awareness of as a cultural phenomenon which has extended far beyond the simple realm of a Saturday morning children’s cartoon. 

Bucky doesn’t even deign to reply. 

It’s not that Steve doesn’t get it. He does. Steve understands memetics. He just doesn’t seem to care about this rapidly-changing little world in the same way. He _definitely_ doesn’t find it as funny or as fascinating as Bucky obviously does. 

Steve doesn’t spend any more time online than he has to. The internet is for news, information, and, sometimes, for recipes.

While Steve interacts with the internet on a need to know basis, Bucky spends time online because he likes to. He’s always had a relatively offbeat sense of humor. Despite being plucked abruptly out of 1945 and then deposited back into the 21st century significantly worse for wear and rife with unaddressed trauma, Bucky fits right in with the kinds of dry, absurd personalities that seem to thrive in specific online spaces. 

“I want you to get me something from the bodega,” Bucky says. It’s the first time he’s spoken to Steve since the ill-fated Spongebob joke three hours ago. 

“Muh,” says Steve. Earlier, he was drawing, but as the morning stretched into afternoon, he gave up and migrated onto the carpet. He’s been lying on the floor in a patch of sunlight ever since and now he blinks sleepily at Bucky, groggy and confused. “Now?”

“I want Triscuits,” says Bucky. “Thanks.”

Steve takes a moment to process this information. “You want me to go out and get you a box of crackers right this second?”

“No,” Bucky says slowly, without looking up. Pieces of his hair have either fallen out of his bun or they’ve been deliberately arranged to loosely frame his face. “I want Triscuits, specifically.”

Steve yawns and scratches at his belly. He rolls slowly onto his back and stares at Bucky upside down, admiring the delicate slope of his bare shoulder as he lies slumped across the couch in a very thin, very slutty tank top. 

“Steve.”

“Mmm.”

“Will you?”

“Yeah,” says Steve, sighing theatrically. “But only because you’re so pretty.”

Bucky colors lightly, his brow furrowing in mild embarrassment. “There’s ten bucks in my wallet. Get yourself an ice cream for your trouble.”

Steve grins, sloppy and lopsided. “Yeah, okay.”

He goes to the bodega and gets Bucky his box of crackers, holding it under his arm as he licks a popsicle. 

When he gets home, Bucky takes the box from him with a brief kiss and disappears into the spare bedroom, shutting the door behind him. Steve shouts, “What are you doing?” and all Bucky yells back is, “RESEARCH.”

Steve stands outside the door for a while, but an explanation is not forthcoming. As far as Steve can tell, he doesn’t even eat them. 

It’s not until they’re in bed that night, Steve reading a book while Bucky scrolls through Twitter, that the Triscuit Mystery resolves. 

“Okay,” says Bucky, finally breaking his silence. “Before we begin, why do you think they’re called Triscuits?”

Steve opens his mouth and then closes it. He cocks his head, considering the topic that has evidently dominated their day. “Biscuits,” he says finally. “Tri? Three biscuits? Three. Maybe they’re—” He pauses. “Thrice baked. Like hardtack.”

“You’re completely wrong,” Bucky says cheerfully. He’s got an image up on his phone, and when he catches Steve trying to read over his shoulder, he tilts the screen away. “Stop that. Did you know—”

“Here we go,” says Steve. He slips a bookmark between the pages and pointedly puts his book aside, angling his body to face Bucky. “Hit me.”

“Did you know,” Bucky repeats, slightly louder. “That Triscuits are the original _’electric baked biscuit_ ’.”

He announces it with considerable gravitas, gaze locked on Steve’s face. There is expectation in his eyes. Steve is sure, like all things internet, that he is somehow failing Bucky by not picking up what he’s putting down. 

“Wow,” he says encouragingly. “Is that so?”

Bucky continues to stare at him. He is trying so hard to beam a thought into Steve’s brain. “‘Triscuit is baked by electricity’,” he recites. “‘The only food on the market prepared by this 1903 process’.”

“What,” says Steve flatly. There’s suddenly a lot happening in the world of Triscuits. “Baked by electricity? Do they mean lightning bolts, or electric ovens? _What_?”

“‘Triscuit,” Bucky says more forcefully, “Is baked by electricity’.”

All at once, Steve is struck by his own tiny personal lightning bolt. “Oh,” he says. “ _Oh_. Triscuit. Biscuit. Baked by—”

“Elec _tri_ city,” Bucky yells, reaching out to smack Steve on the arm with a burst of uncontrollable enthusiasm. “Elec-TRI-city biSCUIT!” 

Steve is left in stunned silence, while Bucky dissolves into howling laughter. 

“Wait,” says Steve. “You read about this on Twitter?”

It takes a little while for Bucky to calm down. He’s clearly having an extremely good time. 

“Yeah,” says Bucky, wiping away an honest to god tear from his eye. “Look, they found the original advertisement.” He flashes his phone at Steve, showing him the kind of hand-drawn, full-page ad that wallops Steve right in the chest with aching familiarity.

  


“Wait,” says Steve, grabbing him by the wrist to hold his arm still. “Let me see—”

“Triscuits,” Bucky intones solemnly, “ _Triscuits_ —”

“Electricity biscuits.”

“‘Triscuits are to be eaten with cream, fruit juices, as toast with eggs, and a thousand and one other ways.’”

“Cream,” says Steve, his voice rising sharply. “What?”

“‘Fruit juices’.” Bucky pulls his wrist out of Steve’s grip. “Says right here, Steve.”

“ _What_?”

“‘As toast with eggs’.”

“I _heard_ you,” huffs Steve. “Okay!”

“Oh,” says Bucky. “ _Oh_ , it’s ‘fully and comprehensively explained in the neat little booklet which accompanies each package of _genuine_ Triscuits’.”

Steve lets out a slow sigh, like a tire leaking air. “Yes, Bucky. It’s very funny.”

“1001 ways.” Bucky nods, face scrunched up as his sharp gray eyes flick over the screen of his phone. “Must be a big ol’ neat little booklet. Gotta fit that in a box. Probably took up more space than the electricity biscuits.”

“Can I go to sleep, now?” Steve says plaintively. 

“‘In neat packages’,” Bucky continues, ignoring Steve entirely. “‘15 cents each. If you buy two, they cost 25 cents.’ God almighty, Steve, remember prices like that?”

“Please,” begs Steve, dramatically playing up his objection to this hyper-specific history lesson. “Pal—” 

“How much was the box you got me earlier?”

Steve sighs again. “Three dollars and fifty cents.”

Bucky whistles sharply. “Wow. Inflation, huh.”

“It’ll get you every time,” Steve says, resigned.

“I’d give my left arm to get a hold of that neat little booklet, Steve.”

Steve groans, shoving at Bucky’s shoulder. “I should make you sleep on the couch for that.”

“Can’t sleep,” says Bucky. He reaches out and squishes Steve’s cheeks between the fingers of his metal hand. “Not when there are 1001 ways out there to eat an electricity biscuit.”

“Bucky,” mumbles Steve. “ _Bucky_.”

“After all, ‘it’s used as bread, toast, crackers, or wafers’.”

Steve frees himself from Bucky’s grip, only for Bucky to push Steve flat on the bed and climb him bodily, pinning Steve’s arms down with his knees as he straddles his chest. 

“Jam,” says Bucky. “Cheese. Butter. Compound butters. Deli meat.”

“If this is 1001 ways you’d eat a Triscuit,” Steve wheezes. “Then please find a new audience!”

“I’m helping you go to sleep,” says Bucky, grinning wildly. “Tomato. Dip—all kinds of dip. Cucumber slices. Liverwurst. Chocolate. Peanut butter. Goat cheese. Jerky. Tuna fish.”

“You know who’d love to hear this?” Steve says, wriggling his arm free just enough to pinch Bucky’s ass. “Your adoring Twitter followers.”

“I don’t have any,” says Bucky, biting back a gasp and then flicking Steve in the forehead in retaliation. “I’m not an idiot, Steve. I don’t _Tweet_.”

“What?” Steve could pitch Bucky off him with relative ease, but mostly, he kind of feels nice on top of Steve. 

“Tomorrow,” says Bucky. “I need you to go back to the bodega. Buy every single box of Triscuits you can find. How many do you think there are in a box? We need a thousand.” 

Steve releases the tension in his body, letting himself sink into the mattress with Bucky weighing him down. “Okay,” he says. “We’ll get you a thousand Triscuits, Buck.”

“Then,” says Bucky, setting his phone down in the space between Steve’s chin and collar, “then, we figure out a thousand and one other ways to _dress_ a Triscuit.”

Steve is so helplessly in love with Bucky. Just so deeply, debilitatingly in love with every inch of him and his completely absurd sense of humor. 

“How did you ever even get a single date?” he asks fondly. “Let alone more than one of ‘em. You talk Dot’s ear off about crackers too?”

“Nah. It’s easy,” says Bucky. “I’m a real looker, Steve.”

Steve barks out a surprised laugh. “You’re not just a pretty face, Buck.”

“Not a lot of time to talk when you’re dancing, anyway. Not that you’d know that.”

“I’ll dance with you if you give up this wild dream of 1001 ways to eat a Triscuit.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “It’s a deal.”

Steve flips them, then, rolling Bucky under him and leaning in for a kiss. 

“Cream cheese,” mumbles Bucky against his lips. “Bananas.”

Steve buries his face in Bucky’s shoulder and smothers a laugh.


End file.
